


Be My Baby

by crybabycry



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Age Play, Bottom John, Daddy Kink, Dom Paul, Dom/sub, Don't Like Don't Read, Drunk Sex, Embarrassment, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Period-Typical Homophobia, Spanking, Sub John, Top Paul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crybabycry/pseuds/crybabycry
Summary: “Tell me, Johnny,” Paul murmured, teasing his almost-auburn hair between his fingers, “were you a good boy today?”John’s breath quickened, blush spreading as he readjusted himself on Paul’s lap. “No, Paul, I was not a good boy today.”





	Be My Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I wrote this ages ago, but I was too embarrassed to actually post it... Then I ended up writing even smuttier stuff on Tumblr, so I figured why not! I'll post those too after a while, or if there's enough interest. There is dubious consent within this fic, due to both John and Paul getting shitfaced, so you know. (Please let me know if there's something I forgot to tag or otherwise warn for!!)
> 
> I have no connection to the Beatles, their families or estates. I own nothing. Please don't sue?

John felt his voice before he heard it, dark chocolate pooling at the base of his neck and trickling down into his stomach. “John. Come here.” The voice teased, seduced, and John padded barefoot to his lover, a light blush already settling over the bridge of his nose.

  
Paul patted his lap, and grinned. “Sit down, sweetheart.” The boy hesitated for a brief moment—that was okay, Paul decided, as John settled into his lap, bottom nestled against his soft cock. John was still learning; eventually, he would obey a command instantly.

  
“Tell me, Johnny,” Paul murmured, teasing his almost-auburn hair between his fingers, “were you a good boy today?”

  
The room was suddenly much too hot. Another anonymous hotel room in another identical American city. Cincinnati? Cleveland? All he knows is that they’re no longer on the coast, and fancy hotels were few and far between. The hotels of the Midwest all had clerks named Bob (the Bob at this particular hotel was actually named “Dave,” but John continuously told him that he’s really more of a Bob), a broken vending machine, and walls of white plaster sporting either offensively boring or delightfully baffling paintings. John stared at his and Paul’s painting of the night, ducks cavorting and flying around a bevy of mermaids, hair curling just-so around their breasts. He focused on a particular mallard, grooming beneath his wing, as Paul tightened his grip around John’s waist. “I asked you a question… baby.”

  
John’s breath quickened, blush spreading as he readjusted himself on Paul’s lap. “No, Paul, I was not a good boy today.”

  
“At least you didn’t try to lie to me, like last time.” He bent to kiss Johnny’s neck, smiling as the boy emitted a faint moan of arousal. It took so little to get him going with these games. “Tell me what you did, Johnny.”

  
The mermaids seemed to be laughing at him as he confessed, cock growing in his trousers in anticipation of his impending punishment. “I… I was mean to Brian. I called him names, called him a ‘queer Jew.’ George too. Not that I called him a queer Jew, just that he’s a skinny little pouf.”

“Why did you do that, baby?”

  
Eyes falling shut in humiliation, John said what he was expected to: “Because I’m just a little boy.”

“What else did you do?”

  
“I yelled at Mal for dropping my guitar… He didn’t mean to, it was an accident, but I got mad at him.”

  
Paul squeezed John’s knee. “And why did you do that, baby?”

  
John moaned again, though it was barely more than a slightest indentation of the air, the lightest wisp of arousal tinging the space around them. “Because I’m just a little boy.”

  
One by one, Paul made John recount all of the day’s wrongdoings, from an unsupervised wank in the shower to sneaking more chocolates than he was allowed. John repeated the phrase, growing more and more desperate for Paul each time he did. After his last confession, Paul finally reached between his legs and cupped him, making John squeak and spread his legs wide, straddling Paul’s lap.

  
The young man behind him laughed. “No no, not yet, sweetheart. You know what comes first.”

  
On trembling legs, John stood before Paul, and began to remove each article of clothing. His fingers fumbled with his tie and shirt buttons, clumsy with arousal and anticipation, so much so that Paul had to take over. “Tsk tsk,” he chastised, “can’t even undress yourself, Johnny? You need more help than I thought.” John’s legs nearly buckled.

  
Finally, he stood naked before his partner, while Paul sat, clothed, superior. Paul almost liked this part the best—John’s nude body before him, more freckled than he once thought, much softer than he had once imagined. John had always seemed hard to him before, but during their games, he became as soft as a kitten, desperate to please Paul and constantly mewling with desire. Paul bit back a grin as he ran a finger down John’s turgid length, the boy before him trying not to react. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispered, swirling his fingertip around the head of John’s cock, “what do bad little boys get?”

  
“They—they get spankings,” John stammered, unable to meet Paul’s eyes. He kept his eyes on the seafoam green carpet poking between his toes, and wondered if anyone else had played these games in this room before, or ever will again. Doubtful, he thought bitterly, ruefully. You’re a fucking degenerate, Lennon, letting your best friend tease you and spank you and fuck—

  
“Johnny.” Paul’s gentle voice brought him back, and John realized tears were welling in his eyes. He rubbed at them too hard with the back of his wrist, stars exploding as he willed the nuisances to disappear. Two arms slipped around his waist, and he was brought back onto Paul’s lap, curling up on top of him, pathetic sniffles echoing in the curve of Paul’s neck.

  
Paul stroked his boy’s hair, shushing him in whispered tones, repeating sweet words over and over until the feeling passed. It was hard for John at times, Paul knew this. John liked to be in charge, he liked to be loud and rough, and above all, he liked to do things that got him in trouble. But what Paul figured out, what no one else had, was that John really liked the exact opposite. Giving control to Paul was not always easy; reconciling his desires with himself rarely was.

  
“I’m sorry,” John whispered, looking up at Paul with big, wet eyes. Paul leaned down and kissed his lips, chapped from tears and too many nights of wet kisses.

  
“We don’t have to do this tonight,” Paul said. “I mean it. We can just fool around, without any games. Hell, we can just watch telly, if you want. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  
Tears still streaking his face, John smiled, bright as a sunburst through a storm cloud. “Idiot. Like I wouldn’t want this.”

Paul laughed and smacked John on the bum, a precursor of what was to follow. “Get in position, naughty boy.”

  
Their first time hadn’t been like this. The first time had been drenched in alcohol, and a spark of rage neither could repress any more than their lust. Thunder clapped and rain flattened John and Paul’s hair to their skulls as they ran for the cover of their hotel room. John stood, fumbling with the room keys, while Paul shivered and fumed; when the door finally unlocked, Paul shoved his mate inside, smirking as John stumbled.

  
“The fuck is your problem, McCartney?” John spat. He wobbled slightly—he was pissed, like every other Beatle and guest at this establishment. No Englishman present had ever been in the proximity of a hurricane before, but the Americans quickly showed them how to pass the time. The evening had been spent at the hotel’s bar, running up an astronomical tab and jamming with a blues group out of New Orleans. And in typical John fashion, he had made an arsehole of himself.

  
“The fuck is yours, John?” Paul shoved him again, John stumbling backward. “We’ve just got these couple of days off, so you decide to get drunk as a bleedin’ poet on payday and be a cock to everyone in the bar!”

  
John’s nostrils flared, and he pulled himself up to his full height. “They were the cocks,” he protested, “were you listening to what they were saying about me? The bassist and the horn player, they were joking that I was a—was a—”

  
“A queer.”

  
John froze, face white, hands clenched at his side. “I’m not,” he said, voice hoarse and almost desperate. “You of all people…”

  
“I know, John,” Paul said, and the confession gave him a rush of drunken exhilaration, to finally have said the words after all these years. “I know about all of it, everybody does.”

  
“You’re a fucking liar!” John cried, and the look of terror on his face almost made Paul burst into laughter. “You’re a liar, you don’t know a fucking thing!”

Paul did laugh then, and John’s heart pounded sickly in his throat. There’s no way that Paul could know—

  
“—About Stuart? About the time with Brian? Or even about the time you tried with George? I know about the sailors, Johnny. I’ve woken up at nights when you were so sure that I was asleep, I’ve heard you, I’ve seen you do things to yourself…”

  
In retrospect, Paul should have anticipated John’s fist in his face. He remembered very well what happened to Bob Wooler at his own birthday party when he cracked a few jokes about John being a poufter. Bob didn’t even know though, he just made a few jokes. Paul knew what he was saying, and John reacted in typical John-fashion. But John wasn’t the only one to indulge in the bar that night. Paul stumbled back, and as John lunged at him, Paul grabbed him, using his momentum to take them both tumbling to the floor. John squirmed and struggled in his arms, but Paul pinned him to the deep hotel carpet, straddling his stomach and gripping his wrists hard enough to almost break the tiny bones.

“Let me up!” John howled, thrashing beneath him, but Paul’s gravity kept John firmly in place. “You’re a liar, McCartney, I’m not a bloody queer! I’m married, I have a baby—”

  
Paul chuckled deep in his chest. “Johnny, that’s rich. I’ve known about you for years, son, long before Cyn and Julian were around. And everybody else knows too. We knew you’d react like this though, so we let you keep pretending to be straight. We all know though, we talk about it, even. We notice you chatting lads up, and we take bets whether or not we’ll be hearing you squeal that night. It’s a fucking gag, Lennon.”

  
John wasn’t struggling anymore. He lay beneath Paul, face white and still as a corpse, except for the heavy panting pulling his chest up and down. “And you know the real fuck of it, Johnny?” Paul leaned down, lips so very nearly touching John’s ear. “We don’t care. We don’t care that you’re queer. The only thing we care about is when you act like a fucking child about it.”

  
John began to buck underneath him once again. “I am not! I’m a fucking adult, I’m older than you! I am the leader of this band, and you will obey me!”

  
Was it the alcohol in his bloodstream or years of pent-up resentment that made Paul slap his friend across the face? It could have very well been a desire leftover from the night Paul had opened the door of the room he shared with John, just a crack, and heard the slick sounds of fucking and a hand slapping skin. John had moaned for more, and a man had laughed. Paul closed the door and sat on the hallway floor, not daring to think about what he had just heard. He went to the hotel bar for one more drink, and when he cautiously opened the bedroom door again, John sat in bed alone, reading, thick glasses on and cigarette between his fingers. “So what have you been up to, you degenerate?” he teased, a grin playing on his lips. Paul ignored him, and settled into a very troubling sleep, images of John naked and begging haunting him until he woke.

  
John looked up at Paul, eyes wide and brimming with tears. “Shut up, John,” Paul hissed. “You do act like a stupid, bratty child. Those fellows tonight didn’t know anything about you, they were making some jokes, but you told them that the fucking Klan would string them up for looking at white women! You told them that they’d get raped in prison! You’re such an immature, fucking little boy! I’m sick of it, I’m bloody sick of it, John.” Paul lumbered to his feet, and taking advantage of John’s shock to grab his arm, sat on the bed and lay John across his lap, threading John’s legs between his own so he was entirely at his younger friend’s mercy.

  
“Paul, Paul, let me up!” John moaned. He didn’t try to fight, he may have understood that he wouldn’t win. But the realization of what Paul was going to do to him filled him with a humiliation and an arousal so intense and complete, he didn’t think he could move if he wanted to.

  
“Tell me first, Johnny,” Paul whispered. One hand ran over the smooth curve of John’s bum, making the boy whimper. “Tell me first why I have to punish you.”

  
“Be-because I was mean to the people in the bar,” John whispered. “I said rude things.”

  
“You regret doing that now, don’t you, love?”

  
John nodded frantically, eyes clenched shut in shame. “Yes, yes, Paulie, I’m so sorry!”

  
“Tell me why you did it, Johnny.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” John moaned, pathetic whines flavoring the sound. “I don’t know why I do these things, I just can’t help myself!”

  
“It’s because you’re just a little boy, Johnny.”

  
It was then John burst into tears. The hot, fat drops of water fell down his cheeks, staining Paul’s trousers, and he almost moaned in shame once again when he heard Paul laughing at him. “Don’t use all your tears yet, Johnny,” he teased, and a second later, hand hard as stone from the years on guitar, Paul spanked him.  
“You are a little boy, Johnny,” Paul murmured once again, stroking his hair before bringing his hand back down on his arse. “A troublesome, naughty little boy. You’ve needed this for years, haven’t you? Someone to discipline you.”

  
“No, no,” John croaked, craning his neck to look at Paul’s face. “Paulie, I promise to be good, please let me up! Please don’t—don’t…” He had never been so humiliated in all his life, but the arousal pooling at the base of his belly told him that things were going to get worse.

  
It was immediately noticeable. Paul paused his spanking, and John buried his face in the mattress. “What’s this, Johnny?” Paul demanded, voice low and almost dangerous, and with no indecision, he shoved his hand between John’s legs, fondling John’s semi-erect cock and balls between his fingers. “This is supposed to be a punishment, Johnny boy, not playtime.” John didn’t say a word, bit his lip as Paul coaxed him into full hardness. Almost effortlessly, Paul unbuckled John’s belt with one hand, undid his zip, and pulled his trousers over his already-pink arse.

  
“I’m not surprised, Johnny,” Paul whispered, squeezing John’s bottom. “I always knew this is what you needed. This is going to help you be a good boy, isn’t it?”

  
John swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and said, “Go fuck yourself, Paul.”

  
The hand resumed the spanking, hard and merciless on John’s tender flesh. The helpless boy squealed and sobbed as he surrendered himself to Paul’s punishment. Over and over, Paul called him a little boy, a naughty child, a big baby who needed to be punished, and again and again, John moaned in agreement, cock rubbing pathetically on Paul’s leg, leaving embarrassing wet stains of enthusiasm.

  
After what seemed like years, Paul pulled the boy off his lap, stood him in front of him, pants pooling around his ankles and cock smeared with precum standing tall. This couldn’t be the same man who he performed with night after night, Paul wondered, his best friend through all these years. His face sullied from tears and a now-permanent blush, looking shyly at the floor, this was a boy that Paul had never seen before, but one he wanted to know desperately.

  
Without a word, Paul stood next to John and started to undress him totally, until Paul stood before him completely naked and exposed. He stroked one wet cheek tenderly, smiling as John nuzzled into it like a sweet kitten. “You’re going to behave yourself now, aren’t you, Johnny?”

  
“Yes, Paulie,” John answered in a whisper. “I’ll be a good boy. I promise I’ll be good.”

  
“Because you know what happens if you don’t.” Paul stepped closer to John, invading his space until there was less than a breath between them. “But do you know what happens when you’re good?” Without stopping to count the repercussions of his actions, without reminding himself that he is not queer, without listening to his mind screaming that this is his best friend, he wrapped his hand around John’s cock and gave it a firm tug.

  
John squealed and immediately fell into Paul’s arms, completely helpless to resist. Pumping his slick cock, Paul laid him on the bed, John’s feet planted on the mattress and chubby thighs spread open to allow Paul the best access. “Oh John,” the younger man whispered, “oh Johnny, you are so fucking cute, love. You’re so cute, I can’t fucking stand it.”

  
John opened his eyes and locked his incoherent eyes with Paul’s. “Paulie,” he whimpered, “I need… I need you to…”

  
“Say it,” Paul commanded, mouth dry. He pumped John harder, as the boy’s mouth dropped open and he wailed, “I need you to fuck me, Paulie!”

  
Paul stood, smiling as John whined at the loss of his hand, and stripped himself until he was as naked as John, cock hard and aching for the arse he had spent the better part of half an hour spanking.

  
“There’s stuff,” John offered, “in my suitcase. Lubrication.” Paul went to John’s bag and after a few minutes of digging, found the small white tube tucked inside a sock. As he returned to the bed, John turned over, positioning himself on his hands and knees, bottom angled to the mattress as he spread his legs wide for Paul.

  
Paul daubed a greasy amount of lube on his fingers, and held his breath as he ran his index around John’s hole. The boy before him panted, tried to rock back onto his finger, and Paul laughed, more relaxed. “Easy now, baby,” he cooed. “I’ll take care of you, nice and slow, Johnny baby.”

  
John was so tight, much tighter than any girl that Paul had ever had. He pushed in up to the knuckle, then waited for John to adjust. Johnny panted and rocked on his friend’s finger, and he didn’t have to say a word for Paul to know that he was desperate for more. Carefully, he inserted two more fingers, grinning with delight as John bucked and whimpered in pleasure. Christ, John Lennon was actually bouncing up and down on his fingers, begging for more! Swallowing hard, he said, “If you promise to be a good boy, I’ll give you what you really want.”

“Yes, Paulie, I’ll be a good boy!” John cried, absolutely frantic for Paul’s girth. “I’ll do anything you tell me to do!”

  
Paul retracted his fingers from John’s tight heat, smearing enough lube over his cock to ensure it would be a painless entrance for John. Positioning himself behind the boy’s arse, he hesitated, then stroked John’s face, kissing his cheek affectionately. “You are a good boy, you know that, Johnny?” he whispered. “You’ve always been my favorite boy, and I’ll take care of you forever, if that’s what you want.”

  
“Yes, Paulie,” John whispered back, “yes, I want you forever. I always have. Please. Please, Paulie…”

Paul leaned forward and captured John’s salty lips in a wet kiss, as the head of his prick pushed against John’s entrance. John moaned into Paul’s mouth as he breached the perimeter; he hadn’t been just caught in the heat of the moment when he admitted to always wanting Paul. Paul had always been the brass ring, the brightest star in the carousel of John’s love interests. As Paul grew older, even taller than John, sprouted hair up and down his body, John didn’t just love him, he ached for him. Paul was right, this was what John always wanted, it was what he always needed.  
“You’re such a good boy,” Paul grunted, and John almost cried in joy.

  
Now, only months later, John lay in the same position he had the first time, but of his volition, knowing that Paul loved him and that he was Paul’s good boy. Paul stroked his arse before giving it a light tap. This was ritual now—once or twice a week, they would play this game and Johnny would behave himself until he needed Paul to discipline him again. He suspected that the others knew; he had seen their exchanged glances and poorly hidden smiles, but none of them ever said a word.

  
John moaned and panted as Paul spanked him in earnest. To be fair, it wasn’t as much a punishment now as it was the first time, but it was discipline. John was aware that he was no longer allowed to act in such a rude, destructive way, and that Paul would be vigilant to his actions. But he loved it, he fucking loved it. He loved being stripped naked in front of Paul, to be spanked like a child and talked down to, but most of all, he loved that Paul encouraged him. John had never in his life shared these desires with anyone else, but Paul understood on such an innate, animal level that John needed to be controlled with a loving hand. John hardly understood it himself, not until the first time, that he needed space to be little. He was always the leader, always in charge, but just here, he could let Paul be in control and be free to act the way he did before he felt that he couldn’t anymore. Sometimes, Paul wouldn’t discipline him, but he’d play with him, surprising him with funny toys that he had secretly bought in a city abroad, or feed him delicious sweets. Sometimes, they wouldn’t fuck, but just cuddle, John rubbing his cock gently against Paul’s thigh, more for comfort than completion. Every so often, Paul would give him a bath, and though John would never admit it, that was his favorite activity between them. He never felt as loved and cared for as he did when Paul ran a soapy flannel over his body and kneaded shampoo into his hair, singing sweet little lullabies to his favorite boy.

  
“All done, sweetheart,” Paul announced, and John was released from his grip, bottom burning pleasantly. He rolled onto his back, watching his lover as he stood and undressed. He curled up on the bed, stomach rolling in anticipation for what was to come.

“How do you want it, baby boy?” Paul whispered as he sat beside John. “On your fours? Back?”

John shook his head shyly. “I want my favorite…”

  
Paul grinned, leaning against the headboard. “Okay, love, we haven’t done it that way in a while. Hop on.”

  
John clambered onto Paul’s lap once again, eyes fluttering shut as their pricks brushed together. When he opened them, Paul already had the lube in hand, squirting a substantial amount into his palm, and coating his cock with it. Biting his lip, John sank onto his lover’s cock, his tight arse filling so completely.

  
“Ah, God, Johnny,” Paul hissed, and John wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his head in the crook of Paul’s neck, just sitting on his cock. Slowly, very slowly, he began to rock back and forth, feeling so comforted within Paul’s arms.

  
“I love that this is your favorite position,” Paul chuckled breathlessly as John moved faster against him. “Such a good position for my little boy, right on my lap.” John moaned and started to bounce on his cock. Paul knew which words got him.

  
Paul brushed the fringe from his eyes, and kissed him, moaning himself as John kissed him back hard, all while bouncing tirelessly on top of him. “You’re the sweetest little boy,” he murmured. “Johnny, I love you, my sweet baby boy.”

  
John cried out, high and strangled, as Paul’s prick slammed against his prostate and he repeated those words. “Daddy,” he whispered. “Daddy, please, I need it!”

  
Paul clenched his teeth, bucking his hips up to meet John’s—whenever John started calling him Daddy, it meant he was close. That was the biggest hurdle of all to overcome; John obviously wanted it, as did Paul, but only in the precipice did he allow himself to say what he longed to. Paul desperately longed to engage John in a conversation about what exactly he wanted, what kinds of things would make his toes curl and spine shiver, but once John came back to himself, this side of him was closed off until next time. But Paul would keep trying to learn as much as he could about his boy, any way he could. He wrapped his hand around John’s cock, and pumped it vigorously. “Come on, little boy,” he growled in his ear, “come for Daddy, just like a good boy. Make a big cummy for me.”

  
Almost instantly, John froze against him, moaning pathetically as he squirted over both Paul and himself. The look of absolute debauchment on his face made Paul growl once again, and without hesitation, he shoved John onto his back and continued to fuck him senseless.

  
“Goddammit, little boy,” he panted as John whimpered beneath him, “you turn me on so fucking much.” He kissed him brutally, managing several more thrusts before spilling his seed deep within John.

  
They lay with each other for minutes, neither saying anything, just listening to the pounding of their hearts and the steadying of their breath. Finally, Paul kissed John’s forehead and peeled himself off, padding naked to the bathroom. John lay in bed, listened to Paul urinate and wash his hands, blushing slightly when Paul came back with a damp flannel. He wiped the semen from John’s tummy and between his legs, lifting them up as one would a child to gently clean John’s bum. “There we go, nice and clean,” he announced, planting a tiny kiss to John’s lips.

  
He dumped the dirty cloth in the sink, and returned to bed, tucking Johnny in beneath the downy covers. John’s eyes were already heavy with sleep, he wouldn’t last much longer. “Do you want Pandy, love?”

John nodded sweetly, holding out his arms in expectation. Paul grinned, and retrieved the stuffed, love-worn panda from his satchel. Pandy, John had confessed to him one night, was the toy that he went to sleep with every single night until another boy made fun of him for it, and John had refused to even look at his beloved toy again until he and Paul started playing these games.

  
Big bad John Lennon, Paul thought, stroking his boy’s hair. Well-spanked, well-fucked, snuggling a panda bear. Perhaps it might have been funny to an outsider, but for Paul, it was the part of John that only he was allowed to see, and it was so precious, so very treasurable, that he would have given up all of his money, his fame and his talent before he gave up this.

John kissed him again as they settled into bed together, Paul pulling him into his arms, Pandy secure in John’s. “Now, you’ll apologize to Brian, George and Mal tomorrow, yes?”

  
John harrumphed, but eventually said, “Yes, Paulie, I’ll apologize.”

  
Paul turned off the lights, and as sleep came upon them, John could just barely make out the mermaids on the wall, still laughing. A hint of a smile played on his lips as he thought, you girls just wish you could have this.


End file.
